"Terrible," Mr. Wordsley said.
DeCastros smiled reminiscently. "He fled, but we caught him. He really had a lame ankle, you know."
The mice of apprehension scampered up and down Mr. Wordsley's spine. "You killed him." It was a statement of certainty.
"No, indeed. That would have been too easy. We left him there with one portable water-maker and all of that unpalatable but nourishing fungus which thrives upon Avis Solis that he could eat. I have no doubt that he lived until madness reduced his ability to feed himself."
"That was drastic," Mr. Wordsley felt called upon to say. "Perhaps—perhaps it occurred to you later on that, in charity to your brother, the er—woman might not have been altogether blameless."
For a moment he thought that Captain DeCastros was about to strike him again. He did not. Instead he spat at Mr. Wordsley. He had the speed of a cobra. There was not time to get out of the way. Mr. Wordsley employed a handkerchief on his face.
"She was my wife, you know, Mr. Wordsley," Captain DeCastros said pleasantly.
At nineteen-over-four the contamination buzzers sounded their dread warning.
Mr. Wordsley got the alarm first. He had been furtively repairing the viewscreen and thinking dark thoughts the while. There was sick dread for him in the contemplation of the future, for after this last unfortunate blunder DeCastros would be certain to keep his promise and have him examined. This might very well be his last voyage, and Mr. Wordsley had known for quite a long time that he could not live anywhere except out here in the void.